


Time Heals

by FallingForKonoha



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Johnlock, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, I Made Myself Cry, I killed mary what have I done?, I'm so sorry, M/M, Parentlock, Please Don't Hate Me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:06:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingForKonoha/pseuds/FallingForKonoha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The infant that coming into the world, took it’s first breath by stealing it from his wife’s lungs'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gone

Tick...  
Tick...  
Tick….

 

His eyes stared down at the once hot coffee in his hands, long grown cold between ten grasping fingers, untouched since it was given to him hours before  
He studied the brown liquid, a blank stare, fixed on some unnamed point in the center of the cup, as if it could explain it to him, what was happening, why it happened, how to stop it, how to live with it. It remained unhelpful

 

Tick…  
Tick…

 

The clock hanging over head on the wall was quiet, yet oh so loud, every other noise drowning out so all that remained was that repeated ticking, counting away seconds, seconds since it happened, since he was informed, since his life fell apart before his very eyes, once again, control slipping through his fingers leaving him powerless, useless

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

His face remained the same, a picture perfect capture of confusion and disbelief, the news refusing to fully sink in, his brain so afraid to accept it as fact, because it couldn’t be real, no, any moment he’d wake up, in his bed, another nightmare, that’s what it was, he just had to wait just a little longer, and he’d open his eyes, in bed with Mary and she’d offer him breakfast with a sad smile, like she always did when he woke from nightmares.  
He couldn’t move

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

Sherlock stood next to him, a pillar of a man, still and silent, offering what little support possible without uttering a single word, because anything he had to say would fall on deaf ears. No, John wasn’t there, he was in bed, with Mary, at their flat. 

 

His presence brought John little comfort

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

No, it wasn’t real. How could it be? That someone like Mary, strong and smart and sure, killed an unknown amount of men, could shoot a bloody coin out of the air, was trained to murder in ways John would never understand, did things John never knew  
And now, would never know

His breathing caught

Because how was it possible? That she could just stop, right then and there, her life taken by something as regular and mundane as childbirth? 

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

He hadn’t gone to see the baby, his baby, their baby. The infant that coming into the world, took it’s first breath at the cost of stealing it from his wife’s lungs  
She couldn’t handle it

And now she was gone

Leaving a husband without a wife

A daughter without a mother

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

He was no stranger to the feeling, the burning, pulling, and complete and utter agony of losing someone so damn precious. It happened before; the initial denial and sheer disbelief. He always went straight into depression after that, followed by acceptance. No anger, no bargaining. The only time he had properly gone through each and every phase was when Sherlock jumped, and he spent the better part of two years stuck at pleading, as if enough begging would make the man crawl out from within his grave, being his usual callus self as he chastised John for being so overruled by emotions

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

He wondered vaguely if it would be the same in this case. If Mary would bring out the worst in him as Sherlock did, and the masochistic part of him wanted it to, to prove a point, to himself, to punish himself

It was his fault, after all

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

The child

He couldn’t bring himself to move, no matter how much he willed his tired body, the baby remained in the nursery while everyone waited for him, to decide when he was ready  
He never would be, though, they couldn’t possibly not know that

It happened again

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

Lestrade and Ms. Hudson had long gone home, each muttering their condolences and their landlady did so with teary eyes  
The only ones that remained where Sherlock and Mycroft, the British Government sat casually across from him, one hand on his umbrella and the other on a cuppa, his assistant at his side typing away at her mobile, the repeated clicking soothed the air, falling into flawless rhythm with the clock

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

Didn’t he have a country to run? Wars to start, people to spy on. Why was Mycroft there? Why was Sherlock? The Holmes’ brothers weren’t the comforting type, and by their obvious body language, were tired by the emotional turmoil he was going through. Emotions neither of their areas

 

Tick  
Tick  
Tick

 

They were waiting for him, and all, including ‘Athena’ jerked their heads towards him in surprise when he finally got feeling back in his body, forcing it to stand

 

Sherlock swept to his side in an instant as John limped his way towards the nursery, towards Mary’s last gift to the world

 

The ticking left his earshot

Thankfully

 

The unnamed child laid there, Watson written across the bed frame, her tiny chest rose and fell with each breath, and John looked over the infant with a blank expression for a few moments, before his leg gave out completely, Sherlock catching him with ease, as if he was expecting it

Like a damn bursting, hot tears escaped his eyes, cries raising up his chest and he choked on them, before letting them fall free, burying his face in Sherlock’s legendary coat without a second thought, clutching the labels for dear life, he was drowning, unable to breathe, sputtering and letting out every emotion he never allowed himself to feel, and it soaked its way into the wool

He only half registered Sherlock’s initial hesitance, before the lanky man rested one big hand on John’s head, his fingers weaving into his hair in a way that might have been comforting, his other hand running soothingly down his back, trying to calm him, keep him from hyperventilating, the embrace awkward and uncomfortable but John couldn’t bring himself to care, only pull him closer

It was all he could do not to lose himself completely

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense  
> No, nothing, I'm a horrible human being  
> I didn't kill Mary to ship my ship, though, let that be known. If Johnlock were to become Canon, I'd want it to be the way people normally do it, divorce and such. Not by killing off Mary because Christ I love her
> 
> But I had the idea of a Parentlock, one that could actually take place if the writers chose so, and this was the result
> 
> I in no way hate Mary or support Mary hate. I don't even know why I killed her I'm very upset at myself, just as upset as if I had killed Mycroft (and for those who don't know, Mycroft is my bby)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was surprised at the positive feedback I received involving this story and how people wanted it continued, it made me really happy! I was worried no one would be interested in something so angsty and depressing, because, well, it's angsty and depressing. But I'm super glad I'm not the only masochist in this fandom

“Mary”

Her name was whispered, softly, barely heard over the background buzz of the hospital around them, and if it wasn’t Sherlock with him in the room, he would have assumed no one heard him properly

The detective turned his way; his sharp gaze boring into John’s back, trying to see everything, or anything, there that could help him understand

“Is gone” He finally supplied, his tone no louder than John’s

There was a sharp intake of breath, and Sherlock saw John’s hands clench tightly into fists at his sides, knuckles turning white under the pressure he applied

32 hours, 32 hours since what had happened, and John still remained in the hospital, refusing to go home, change, shower, eat. And Sherlock stayed, because that what best friends do at a time like this, right? Stay

Sherlock lifted his chin a fraction of an inch, looking down his nose at the blogger, who stood there, hands beginning to shake, shoulders trembling oh so slightly with the threat of new tears  
Even without being able to see his face, Sherlock knew he was blinking them away

 

“No” He replied, “That’s not…” He cleared his throat, lifting his hand to cough into it roughly “Not what I meant”

“Then what did you mean?” Sherlock asked

He hated it, seeing him like this. Because the man before him was not John Watson, there was no smile, no laughter, no army doctor with a need for an adrenaline rush; just a sad, broken man, and Sherlock didn’t know how to fix it, if it was even possible to, all the knowledge he stored in his mind palace utterly useless. He consciously relaxed his jaw that set at the thought

 

“I want…” John paused, and there was another deep breath, like he was readying himself, steadying himself, as if the next words would hurt more, bring more pain than he was already in “I want her name…to be Mary” 

Sherlock blinked, his hands slipping his coat pockets like second nature, fingers curling around his mobile with the urge to send off a text, a signal for help, to whom, he didn’t care. Everyone, anyone, because even he knew this was Not Good

 

He doesn’t give in

 

“Are you sure that is wise?” Sherlock asked, “Hardly seems fair to the infant to be named after your deceased wife, you’ll be in tears every time you so much as utter her name” He said, because that’s the only thing he can think to. To point out the flaws in the logic

It was the wrong thing, however, because John whirled around, tucking his chin to his chest, shoulders hunching

“Shut up. Just…Just shut up” He said, but there was a pleading there, under the vemon, under the anger

_Don’t bring it up_

“John, you aren’t thinking rationally”

“Of course I’m not! I just fucking lost my wife!” He yelled, and a soft crying results

“Shit, shit!” He turned, hands hovering above the frightened newborn, but he made no move to touch her

Sherlock watched, unsure of what to do, a feeling once unfamiliar was becoming much too frequent

“Stop, please stop” John pleaded, as if the child can understand, as if begging would do anything. If the world were only that simple…

“Perhaps if you held her” Sherlock suggested, the hand around his mobile tightening to the point he was certain he’d crack the screen from pressure alone

John turned back, and his eyes, god Sherlock could have gone his whole life without seeing that look in John’s eyes, and he would’ve died a happy man

“I can’t, Sherlock, I can’t” He said, blinking, panicked

“Nurse!” The detective called over his shoulder, and a woman, _5’6”, lesbian, married, recently quiet smoking_ , came rushing in

“She’s crying” Sherlock said, waving a hand towards the transparent box that made up the child’s bed

When the infant was finally calmed, the room fell into silence, but it felt nothing like what Sherlock had grown accustomed to

It felt wrong

 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock finally asked, just to say something, to fill the void with sound, because the silence was deafening and held far too much truth, a buzz that vibrated through the air and built tension in it's wake

John looked at him, furrowing his brows, before turning back towards the infant, his face twisting in misery  
“Yeah…I’m sure”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes discovered two things about himself when he met Mary Watson for the first time

One, was that he didn’t know John nearly as well as he thought he had, his prediction of John’s reaction had ranged from joyous to just a little pissed off, but the fact John had been all but ready to cut him out of his life for good, had never even crossed his mind.   
It wasn’t until Mary had talked John down, using words and phrases that Sherlock would have never thought to say, even with his assumed complete understanding of his only friend, it was obvious Mary knew John better than he could ever hope to

The other, was that he was rather fond of the woman

She was amazing, smart, beautiful, cunning and add in a dash of complete control over her emotions and the result was a female version of himself, a much better version, he was willing to admit

She was one of the rare few people that had gained his respect besides The Woman, John, and Mycroft when he was a child. 

Sherlock admired her

She read everyone like an open book, not with deductions like himself but the ticks and tells of their emotions, the way they’d look at something, someone, react to certain speech and body language  
Exactly like Irene Adler but Mary Watson never once used what she’d gained against anyone, at least not anyone he knew

She never did reveal the obvious truth she had read from his face the first time she saw him

He could never see himself mourning her quite like John was, but similar to what happened with The Woman, there was a tugging in his chest, one that pulled at him in ways he wasn’t used to, and definitely not fond of

It felt…heavy, like something sitting on his chest, and his fingers itched to compose something, a piece of music to go along with Ms. Watson’s death, but what good would it do besides lighten the load on him? John would surely understand what Sherlock was up to and plummet even deeper into the depression he was already in, brought down further by the idea of unemotional Sherlock Holmes grieving over the loss of John’s wife

The doctor had agreed to move back into Baker St, in fact, Sherlock hadn’t even asked, neither did he, just when receiving all the information and purchasing the car seat, they both climbed into the same taxi, and Sherlock gave the address, and John didn’t correct him

Now there they were, in their flat, Sherlock sprawled about the couch, holding his typical ‘mind palace’ pose to seem nonchalant and completely composed, because John was falling to bits and Sherlock had to be the uncaring one, the one that would act like the day was like any other so John wouldn’t have to listen to the constant talk of pity from everyone else

 

The infant. Figuring out what to do with the new Mary Watson was proving to be rather difficult. John was hell bent on keeping the child, seeing her as an extension of her mother and therefore something to treasure, but Sherlock couldn’t agree it was a logical choice considering John could barely touch his daughter without tearing up and needing time alone in his room

Ms. Hudson was helping out in anyway she could, and Mycroft had insisted on live in help ‘until Dr. Watson regains his composure’, but most of the burden of caring for the infant had fallen on Sherlock’s shoulders, since he’d grown tired of Ms Hudson’s constant appearances and had kindly told his brother to piss off

Of course he would never do something like changing, or feeding, Ms. Hudson took care of that every three hours, but setting up the newborn in a bouncer and placing her in the living room to ensure she didn’t spit up on herself or remain without human contact for too long was easy enough. The child was relatively calm, as if she knew what world she’d been born into and didn’t want to burden them further, so he’d say whatever came to mind out loud, switching the languages every now and then to ensure little Mary would be able to identify a verity of different pitches and tones that come with multilingual children. He’d attached a mobile to the bouncer to secure healthy brain and eye development and would slip in and out of his mind palace while doing so, only coming out when she’d begin to fuss, which was rare

John would stay in his old room most of the day, at times he’d emerge to use the bathroom nearest his door, or make himself toast and eat it upstairs, not saying much more than “How is she” before leaving once again with Sherlock vague reply of “Fine”

It was John’s child, and yet, Sherlock spent more time with the infant than John, taking care of the baby as if she was John himself, unable to defend himself after an injury and was on bed rest, as had been the point once or twice throughout their relationship as flatmates. He was surprised to find he wasn’t bored, even without cases and forced into the mundane task of babysitting. He suspected it had something to do with the fact he could feel nothing more than an overwhelming amount of concern and it ate every other emotion it came in contact with

Somewhere along the first three weeks of her stay in their flat, Sherlock Holmes’ became more of Mary’s father than John, a fact he could call nothing short of disturbing


End file.
